


Connection Point

by rilina



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Gen, Gift Fic, POV Minor Character, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:52:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rilina/pseuds/rilina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keeping up with Quatre Winner will never be an easy job, not even for a Maganac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connection Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Edonohana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edonohana/gifts).



> Winter gift fic for Edonohana. Many thanks to troisroyaumes and etothey for the helpful betas.

If this spaceport wasn't the most convenient fueling station between Master Quatre's home colony and X18999, I doubt any Maganacs would have ever stepped foot here. It's the lone attraction on a minor colony, built in the first wave of outer space construction and forgotten by technological improvements ever since. The same faded posters always hang on the wall, and the same wings of the building are always under perpetual construction. And the air's forever stale, despite the clanging recyclers, and pungent with fast-food grease and burnt coffee.

We come through this spaceport every month now. Master Quatre's business interests on X18999 never allow him to stay away for very long, so we're always preparing for return trips the moment we get home. I remember the first time that reconstruction efforts brought us here, soon after peace was restored. Master Quatre had asked to review our itinerary before our departure, and I had apologized about the stop when I submitted the files.

"It's not a problem, Rashid," he said. "It's only a short delay, and the other fueling stations are further off our route."

"But what about your safety? Their security is lax. It would be easy for someone to make you a target. And their customs agents have a reputation for creating delays."

"Let them inspect what they want to inspect. We have nothing to hide." He didn’t add "anymore," but he could have. After all, there was a time when our hold would have contained plenty of contraband: gundanium, vernier fuel, and mobile suit armaments. Now everything we did was perfectly legal, and anything that wasn't legal—like our collective backgrounds—was classified. Master Quatre was happy about being legitimate, and if that was what he wanted, we would help him to be the most legitimate businessman the universe had ever seen.

It has been many months since Master Quatre has asked to see our flight plans. I can't remember when he stopped needing to know every detail of his trips, when he became content to let me know them for him. But eventually he began to wave aside his itineraries with the distracted air he reserved for board reports and press releases. For me, it was a moment when the reality of Master Quatre being a businessman rather than a warrior hit home.

Is it wrong that this makes me sad? Not that we're no longer terrorists, but what Master Quatre has become instead. And what we've become ourselves, in following him.

 

* * *

 

Many wonder what Zayeed Winner would think of his son's choices, even those who don't know about the old rift between father and son. The Winner Foundation has certainly changed under its new management. Its reach now extends well beyond L4 and deep into Earth politics. It's no less respectable than it was in the past, but it's more feared. And while the commitment to pacifism remains, the technical details of how that works out are different.

I never knew Mr. Winner. Stealing a resource satellite wasn't exactly the grounds for an acquaintance. But working as Master Quatre's security chief has given me many opportunities to learn about him and the family. The foundation staff talks carelessly among themselves. We Maganacs must be invisible to them, as they never seem to realize that we might be listening. And of course we listen. Security is built on intel; information is what keeps Master Quatre alive. The sisters say much less, because they've been trained on how to live in the public eye. But what they don't say is almost more revealing than what they do.

For what it is worth, I suspect Mr. Winner would be pleased with how Master Quatre's grown up. The precious only son has returned to the heart of his doting family. He is doing the work that he was born to do--and make no mistake, he was born for it, even if he wasn't a test-tube baby--and he never forgets what the universe expects of him as Quatre Raberba Winner. It's all's well that ends well from the family's perspective, or something close to it.

My own hands are dirty, so I know that's a lie. Peace is never that easy. I don't object to Master Quatre having a home to return to. He may be our leader, and he may be a killer, but he was also a child. Children should be able to go home. And I will always be grateful that he opened that home to us, because we never had our own from the start. But what's the difference between going back and going backwards_? _The Winners helped make the universe that tried to destroy itself twice in two years. Should they really be the ones to remake it too?

 

* * *

 

Once again, the customs agents are sending us over to Terminal C to get our final clearance for departure. There's no genuine reason for them to do so.  The approval's electronic, after all. But this spaceport's checkered reputation is well earned, so they send us on our way to collect that last stamp. At least Master Quatre doesn't give them the satisfaction of being annoyed. He's far too polite to show his frustration.

The other terminal's about a kilometer away, down a drab corridor that runs along the perimeter of the colony. For once the moving sidewalk is actually in order. On our last two trips, it was roped off for repairs. With a lot of diplomacy and a little force, I get Master Quatre's entourage of engineers, secretaries, sisters, and Maganacs onto the sidewalk and headed in the right direction. Master Quatre's safely in the middle of the crowd, with Auda at his elbow, just in case some disgruntled remnant of OZ or White Fang chooses this moment to attack. Our leader doesn't notice any of the activity around him. He's already pulled out his tablet and begun tapping through the pages of some report.

The sidewalk pauses briefly under the weight of our group, but after an ominous grumble, it lurches back into motion. I station myself in the back, as usual. Trust the front to Ahmed, the young master to Auda, and the rearguard to myself. I scan our surroundings for possible threats, but all I see is the usual assortment of sweepers and suits.

We've almost reached Terminal C when we lose him.

I am prepared for ex-military assassins, but not for a runaway Quatre. So I don't immediately connect the person running past me--in the wrong direction--with our master. In my defense, I am already climbing over the rail to follow when Auda's panicked report comes through my wrist comm. "He just hopped over the side! I only looked away for a second!"

"I have visual. What made him run?"

"I have no idea! There's no trouble that I can see. What is he doing?"

Staring at the wall, so much as I can tell from a distance. "Unclear. Stay with the others. We'll catch up."

He hasn't run far. When I reach him, he's looking at a faded advertisement like it's a masterpiece. _Special Limited Engagement,_ screams a headline above a drawing of lions. The dates along the bottom are two months old. And he holds out a hand as I run up, but doesn't take his eyes off the poster. "Rashid, let me see our schedule."

I put two and two together as I give him the appropriate datastick, which he loads onto his tablet. Of course: A Circus. After a moment he says, "We should be able to manage a few days if we alter our flight plan now. We'll have to file a revision with the local authorities, though."

"They're particular about that. What is our new destination?"

"Earth." I recognize the tone of voice, and don't bother asking why. He sounded exactly the same when he convinced all the other Gundam pilots to head to space during the war. When Master Quatre fixes on an idea in this manner, the best thing is to make it happen. Security concerns can solve themselves sometimes. And I prefer this Master Quatre to the one who never asked where we were going.

The comm on my wrist crackles to life. It's Auda again. "Rashid, come in! Did you find him? Do you need assistance?"

"I'm with him now. We'll be back in a minute."

Master Quatre is smiling _that _smile again. The one of astonishing sweetness, the one that's absolutely terrifying to those who know what he's capable of. This Quatre is the pilot who led us during the war. And he listens to the heart of the universe more than he listens to the ghost of Zayeed Winner.

"Ahmed and I will work on a new itinerary," I tell him.

"The standard disclaimers always apply," Master Quatre says as he returns the datastick. "All schedules are subject to change."

 

 


End file.
